


Gwen Can't Be On Duty All The Time

by dollsome



Category: Merlin (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You prat, you big stupid prat, how many times am I going to have to watch you die? Merlin is thinking, because at this point it seems like a legitimate question, and because as long as the word 'prat' is in his brain then he's not eaten up by how afraid he is, or how dead Arthur looks. Really dead this time. Properly dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gwen Can't Be On Duty All The Time

_You prat, you big stupid prat, how many times am I going to have to watch you die?_ Merlin is thinking, because at this point it seems like a legitimate question, and because as long as the word 'prat' is in his brain then he's not eaten up by how afraid he is, or how dead Arthur looks. Really dead this time. Properly dead. Morgana's got him on an altar and everything. She's thorough, Morgana is, and dead set on killing people with love, or the lack of it. Merlin doesn't know where Gwen is (and there's something else to scare him sick, but not right now, not right now, he'll get to that once Arthur's breathing again) but she's not here and Merlin's tried every spell he could think of and a few that he couldn't; those just showed up out of sheer mad desperation. No luck. Not even a twitch.

Merlin knows that it's all going to come back to kissing. It does quite a lot, with spells. He'd have thought that maybe Morgana would be more original. True love? It's a bit of a tired idea. (Where's Gwen where's Gwen where's Gwen)

He's tired and shaking, can't even stand up right because the magic's taken so much out of him. And for what? For nothing. For the prince of Camelot lying still and cold as the stone beneath him, so much more annoying when he's not breathing than when he is, and who'd have thought. Merlin sinks down next to him, tries not to be sick, tries not to feel sicker at the cold body, at the brief relief he feels at it, the cold after the magic.

"Wake up," Merlin says, taking Arthur's cold hand in his and shaking it, like he could shake the cold out, "come on, wake up, you prat, you're not even king yet. You're going to give up that easy? That's not much like you, is it? That's not nearly annoying enough."

Nothing, says Arthur.

Merlin looks at his stupid face, which looks much better when it's all still like that. He's actually a bit handsome, when you look past the sickly pallor. No smug stupid grin, no pulling weird faces, no big wide incredulous _Merlin you idiot_ eyes. Just a prince, just any noble prince, killed by a sorceress who will never forgive the loss of their love. Funny thing about love. How you don't quite notice it until you need it.

 _Gwen's not here, but,_ thinks Merlin (well, it's something like thinking, a sloppier sadder version of thinking), and he leans down and presses his mouth to Arthur's forehead. Maybe there's a spark, maybe there's not, might as well do the thing properly. He kisses each of Arthur's eyelids, his lips, very carefully, like he's following a ritual as it's being invented.

Sure enough (he was sure and wasn't; that's how it always is, with them, with destiny): Arthur's eyes open. Merlin thinks he might die of relief.

"Merlin," he croaks, Arthur as ever, exasperated as ever, the best sound Merlin's ever heard, " _what_ are you doing?"

"Nothing I want to be," Merlin answers easily, as if his heart's not about to stop, or burst -- and he guesses it isn't now. Not much point now. "It's a tough life, being your servant."

"Ha ha ha," Arthur deadpans, as Merlin helps him sit up. "Kiss me again, and I'll just ask Morgana to put me back under."

"Right, got it," Merlin says, "Come on, we've got to--" But death doesn't fade quickly, of course. Arthur tries to stand leaning against Merlin. Fails. The pair of them sink back down, hard, and Merlin's about to say something clever (nothing heartens Arthur quite like calling Merlin's cleverness unclever, Merlin has learned), but then Arthur is leaning into him, burying his face in Merlin's shoulder. Each breath still hurts a little; Merlin can tell just by listening. He means to put a hand on Arthur's back, but presses it to his chest again; he can't help needing it, the reassurance of a heartbeat. _Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum._

"I'm glad you're here, Merlin," Arthur murmurs.

Merlin rests against Arthur's neck (just for a minute, just until he feels steady again, just until he's sure the stupid prat's not going anywhere), and shuts his eyes, and feels the warmth return.


End file.
